


Silver Lining

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Historical, M/M, good omens exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-06
Updated: 2006-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:12:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a destination is worth its distance. (England, 1693)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Lining

**England, 1693**  
  
When traveling by coach along a moonlit forest road, there are three points of protocol which must always be kept in mind: to avoid highwaymen, to not spill wine on one’s lap when the vehicle comes to a sudden stop after the driver catches sight of a band of highwaymen, and to never negotiate with said band.  
  
Crowley accomplished two of these on a daily basis. He avoided highwaymen insofar as to not actively seek out their company. But they were, after all, his people, and they could no more be held accountable for seeking him out than a moth could be done for courting a candle flame only to find itself burnt to a crisp. Such was the way of things.  
  
Also: he never negotiated.  
  
The wine was another story. As he wiped at his britches with what a moment ago had been an immaculate linen handkerchief, the cab door swung open. Outside stood a man with finely manicured hands and rather tatty clothes, but though he was of no small girth, he couldn’t rightly be called a band: he only played the lyre, and badly at that.  
  
The woolen hem of his hood fell back from his face. He looked up, his lips curling into a sheepish smile.  
  
“Pardon my intrusion, but I-- Oh! Crowley. It’s you. What a coincidence... I, er, seem to have lost my party.”  
  
Crowley snorted and tossed back the remaining dribbles of his wine. “Party? Is that what they’re calling them these days?” he asked. “But I suppose you mean that group of friars I saw twenty minutes ago, making merry by the side of the road.”  
  
“Er.” The flush on Aziraphale’s cheeks deepened. “I was with them, and then...”  
  
“Left you to sort out the directions on your own, eh?”  
  
“Not exactly.”  
  
“Right.” Crowley eyed the angel for a moment more, and then said, “Well? Aren’t you getting in?”  
  
“Where’re you going?”  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
Aziraphale hesitated. “No,” he said, at length. Then he got in.  
  
“Good.” Crowley rapped his cane on the carriage roof twice, and without pause they were moving, out and on and through the cool night air. It had been several long months since he’d last seen the angel -- he’d been out of London on some sort of evangelical kick, and looked worse for it. But it was none of Crowley’s business. He’d gone about his work with the same old spring in his step, and so it was that things got done, some of Aziraphale’s things included.  
  
And now Aziraphale was actually twiddling his thumbs.  
  
Crowley stared at him for a moment, offhandedly aghast, and then turned to look out the window. The forest ground was thinly frosted, dark, and cold, and the moonlight fell in heavy ribbons across the backs of myriad leaves. He said, “So have you--”  
  
“The most peculiar thing--”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Aziraphale shook his head. “You go first.”  
  
“Um.” Crowley cleared his throat, and said, quite smoothly, “Been well?”  
  
“As well as can be expected.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
“Oh, you know how it is. One day it’s wine and roses, and the next it’s...”  
  
“Rotgut ale and thistle.”  
  
A pause. “It isn’t all bad.”  
  
Crowley smiled thinly. “Who’re you trying to convince?”  
  
“No one,” Aziraphale said, a bit testily. “Where did you say we were going?”  
  
“I didn’t.”  
  
“And why are we in such a hurry?”  
  
Crowley shrugged. He was of the opinion that it was always best to spend as little time _between_ places as possible, and if getting there meant leaving a trail of dust and awed onlookers in one’s wake, all the better. Besides which, speeding over the rocky roads seemed to balance out the overly greased axel buffers, and the scenery was nothing if not enhanced by the blur. He carefully refilled his wineglass, and then realized that Aziraphale was still waiting for an answer. Well, two could play at that game. “If you were so attached to your _party_ , why’d you come with me?”  
  
“Oh.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, and then said, “It was a long walk to the next town. Fifteen miles, give or take.”  
  
“Huh,” said Crowley. “You really did lose them. And to think I doubted your taste.”

 

 

* * *

  
  
“So you’re just going to hang out here while everyone else eats?”  
  
Aziraphale was almost touched by Crowley’s consternation. He stood beside the wide door of his oversized carriage, arms folded across his chest and the wide brim of his hat shadowing his eyes from the first rays of dawn. Every few minutes, Aziraphale took a step in the direction of the inn. But what could he tell him? He was bound by duty, for better or worse, and so he only said, “Oh, they’ll feed me. I told you: it isn’t all bad.”  
  
“Roast beef, baked potatoes...”  
  
“I don’t know what--”  
  
“Mince pies,” Crowley continued. “And what’s the other one you like? Spinach, is it?”  
  
“This really isn’t the time to--”  
  
“Bread pudding and tarts and those little puffed pastries.”  
  
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said in a tone that, upon reflection, would seem to him a trifle too stern. “Just because _some_ people can have a jolly holiday, I have an _obligation_. And I know you’re just doing this to put me off from the start of my day. You don’t even _care_ for Christmas.”  
  
“Yes, but--”  
  
“No, Crowley. No buts. When I brought it up again last year, you said it was all a lot of hot molecules.”  
  
“Hot air, actually.”  
  
“There you are, then. That’s not the sort of thing I’d forget.”  
  
“Fine,” Crowley said. And with that, he hopped back into the carriage, signaled to the driver, and was gone down the road.  
  
Aziraphale stood quite still for several moments. He watched the dust billow up from the large, grumbling wheels, saw the carriage’s black body cast a gray shadow, but kept his thoughts on the stately coat of arms which was emblazoned upon the door in red and gold paint; Crowley had been quite proud of it when he first drew up the diagram sometime in the late twelfth century, and it had here and there popped up on his linens and signets and silk pyjamas ever since. Aziraphale always thought the serpent was disproportionately large to the Tree he was wound round, but the gilt-encrusted leaves were rather fetching.  
  
“Well,” he said, and pushed his hands into his robe so they would not shake. “Well.”  
  
Inside the inn, the friars were already assembling before the bare hearth. Aziraphale caught sight of John, and laughed, “Oh, you don’t know the night I’ve had! Why, I was almost was lost in the forest, and could’ve been out there for days.”  
  
Friar John’s eyes widened slightly. “I do not know how it could have happened, Master Fell. You were there one moment, and then you were not.”  
  
“It’s quite all right. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”  
  
“Yes, that would be most... unfortunate. Two times is two too many.”  
  
“Oh, you needn’t blame yourself for the month in Malta. I managed to get by, and the locals were so _friendly_.”  
  
“And nor did we fail to make use of ourselves in your absence.”  
  
There was an almost tangible pause, and then Aziraphale broke it with an all too merry, “Heavens, look at the hour! How time passes.” And then, slightly more confidentially, “What’s for breakfast?”  
  
John motioned to the table where several friars were ladling out meager helpings of gruel from a steaming pot. “Such bounties as we are privileged to partake each day.”  
  
“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Bon appétit.”  
  
He served himself a small bowl, bid good morning to Friar Meriwether and Friar Lemuel, and found a cozy corner in which to devour his mushrooms and poached egg.

 

 

* * *

  
  
Crowley hadn’t meant to acquire a cottage in the Midlands. It was just one of those things: one moment he was enjoying a quiet drink in a tavern of less than reputable name, and the next he was embroiled in a game of high stakes sheepshead.  
  
Of course, taking advantage of a situation was par for the course for a demon, but if Crowley was completely honest with himself, he would be forced to admit that duping a young earl into ruin hadn’t been the first thing on his mind.  
  
What _had_ been on his mind was this: he was hungry for something hot and savory, and also short on pocket change. The cottage was more an unintended consequence than a perk.  
  
Even when he first rode up to see it, he couldn’t rightly call it the latter, and now, when the grounds were blanketed with frost and broken boughs, he wasn’t sure whether “unintended” was the correct term either. At least fresh snow gave things a clean, unoccupied look, provided there weren’t a lot of mangy animals trudging through it all the time; here he saw only the creaking barbs of winter’s miserable sense of humor.  
  
It gave him a chill in his bones.  
  
The stones which made up the cottage’s walls were smooth and even, and though the mortar was already several hundred years old, it had enough veracity to ward off even the more destructive strains of local vine: Crowley had already tried to coax the vines into covering the dapper red paint of the window shutters and shingles, but they retreated at the first sign of double-layered varnish. The right sorts of nuisances just couldn’t be counted on anymore.  
  
Crowley could feel the damp, earthen smell of the stone at the back of his nostrils from the moment he stepped inside, though the fire was already roaring, and a kettle had been set to boil.  
  
“See?” he murmured, rubbing his hands together briskly. “I can have a good time without anyone else around.”  
  
He settled into an overstuffed brocade armchair, drank two cups to liquor-laced tea, and paged through the papers. Then he fell soundly to sleep.  
  
When he awoke several hours later, it was to a stiff neck and an empty stomach.  
  
He pushed himself up, stretched, and crossed the room. Beneath his desk was a mahogany case of the sort that might hold a set of expensive dueling pistols, though it didn’t; it was adorned with heavy gold latches, and while it had a lock, there was no key on Earth that could open it. The fact that there had once been a key, and that he’d lost it the last time he was in Hell, was immaterial.  
  
He didn’t need it.  
  
He only needed to wave his hand: here was a click, there a clank, and the lid rose gently up. Inside lay a set of custom-made ice skates, their leather always soft, and their blades always sharp. He stared down at them for a moment, and then looked out the window; beyond the tree line and before the glade, he knew the pond was frozen solid.  
  
Crowley told himself this: it’s perfectly natural to be restless. The country does that. They’d even printed a feature on it in a philosophic journal. He’d not actually _read_ the article per say, but he imagined it was to do with all the weeds, or something.  
  
Within ten minutes, he had awoken his stable boy and driver. “Harness the horses,” he said, watching his breath trail out in long, lingering talons. It was only as an afterthought that he remembered his jacket.

 

 

* * *

  
  
Aziraphale had never been so embarrassed in all of his existence.  
  
He tried to say as much, but it came out as, “Innisank plarth.”  
  
“What about that time in Sparta? You remember. At the bathhouse.”  
  
He did remember. But he knew better than to address his conscience directly when he was in such a state. He also knew he had somehow misplaced the hours between ten at night and six in the morning, and that he was presently sprawled out in an open field. The frost had been as content to fall upon him as it would upon any other lawn ornament of questionable taste. The damp had long since settled through the thick woolen folds of his robe, proliferated, and migrated to his bones. His brain throbbed; his tongue lay limp as a kipper in his mouth. He felt bad.  
  
And of course his conscience ought to know better than to goad him.  
  
“Well?” it asked. And then, a little later: “Hey.”  
  
“Mmmph.”  
  
“I think you’d better get up.”  
  
Aziraphale shook his head, instantly regretting it. “Can’t.”  
  
“Look. Aziraphale, get _up_.” The voice was far gentler than the booted kick to his side that followed. “Your _wings_.”  
  
Aziraphale’s eyes shot open. Above him stood a young nobleman who wasn’t exactly a young nobleman. “Crowley,” he croaked. “What are you... Oh.”  
  
His wings. He sat up enough to winch them in, but only just so: a scattering of feathers took to the wind about him. The weight of his eyelids was thick and uncomfortable, but less so than the glaring sunlight which scattered through the high boughs of the looming elm. He dragged his fingers through his hair, pulling free a crown’s worth of jagged twigs and leaves.  
  
Crowley extended a hand. “I must say,” he drawled. “I’m impressed.”  
  
“And I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale replied, and eyed Crowley’s open palm with the uncertainty of one who has had the proverbial rug pulled out from under his feet one too many times. Then he let Crowley hoist him up.  
  
“Spending the night in a frozen field while the local tongues wag?” Crowley smiled broadly, and gestured to a group of men and women standing behind a nearby stone wall and whispering fiercely. “It’s, well, _almost_ something I wouldn’t expect from you.”  
  
Aziraphale rubbed his temples. “If you must know, a bit of divine ecstasy goes a long way, as does... Well. It’s Christmas Eve, and it was close to being Christmas Eve last night. One thing led to another, and--”  
  
“Your _party_ , was it? Left you again?”  
  
“Yes,” Aziraphale said.  
  
“Hanging out with the wrong people can be dangerous,” Crowley said coolly.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Oh, nothing. Leave it go at a raised eyebrow, won’t you?”  
  
Aziraphale smiled serenely. It made his face hurt, but somewhere along the winding route of cause and effect, he decided it was worth it. Then something occurred to him. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be all the way to Norway by now.”  
  
“No need to go that far,” said Crowley. “My cottage is in Staffordshire.”  
  
“You? A cottage?” Aziraphale chuckled. “Just because I fell prey to a spot of inebriation last night doesn’t mean I’m daft. Try again: what’re you _really_ doing so far from London?” And then, seeing the disdainful curl of Crowley’s mouth: “You’re serious.”  
  
“Why shouldn’t I be? Cottages are a wise long term investment.” A pause. Crowley’s expression softened by a fraction of a degree. “Potentially. The real estate’s bound to go up in value at some point. There’s even a little pond in the back. People like that sort of thing.”  
  
“You bought it, then?”  
  
“Er,” Crowley began, tugging his cloak about his shoulders distractedly. “I won it, which is _almost_ like buying it.”  
  
Aziraphale nodded. “Dice,” he asked, “or cards?”  
  
“Hard to tell the two apart sometimes.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“You know, you’ve still not said what _that_ was all about.” Crowley motioned to the expanse of field behind them. “Not exactly subtle, was it?”  
  
“Apparently the friars’ guild reached an agreement... They’ve stopped watering their spirits,” said Aziraphale glumly. “It was the mixture that did it.”  
  
“It almost sounds like you need someone to take care of you,” Crowley said. He was looking at Aziraphale quite thoughtfully, with a light smile hanging at the corners of his mouth. And then he caught himself. “That is...”  
  
“Now, don’t be silly, Crowley. It was a perfectly natural thing to say.” Aziraphale was rather surprised at how fetching the sudden, vivid red of Crowley’s cheeks appeared; it almost made him forget the tingling sensation in his chest. “Don’t forget, though; we’ve a moral duty to perform.”  
  
Crowley let out a short laugh. “ _We?_ ”  
  
Aziraphale ignored his tone. By now there were no less than thirty townspeople of all shapes and ages gathered round the verge. “I can’t just leave them with the weight of that knowledge,” he said.  
  
“Afraid they’ll tell their friends?”  
  
“You’ve no idea what an international signing tour can do to one’s stamina.”  
  
“Fine, fine. But don’t expect minute personalization.”  
  
“I think mass hallucination would be most fitting.”  
  
Crowley arched a brow. “Weather balloon?”  
  
“ _Really_ ,” Aziraphale said. Then he strode forward with every drop of enthusiasm he could summon up from his aching limbs, which wasn’t much, made a swift motion with his hands, and boomed affably, “Good morning, townspeople!”  
  
There were a few mumbled replies.  
  
“I would like to assure you that you didn’t see... what you thought you saw, or your neighbors thought _they_ saw--”  
  
“Or their neighbors’ neighbors thought they saw?”  
  
“Shh,” said Aziraphale. “Even though it rather _looked_ like you saw what you saw--”  
  
“Was an occult being passed out in a field?” Crowley offered.  
  
“An _ethereal_ being passed out... No, no. You didn’t see _anything_ out of the ordinary. In fact, you didn’t see anything at all, save for some deer--”  
  
“Why stop at deer? Why not have it be a circus parade?”  
  
Several townspeople began to blindly step forward.  
  
“Stop!” cried Aziraphale. And then, more softly: “You’re not making this any easier, my dear. It should be nothing more than a simple exercise in practical application.”  
  
Crowley sighed. Then he snapped his fingers. The townspeople paused mid-stride.  
  
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, raising his hands again. “You’ve all seen nothing more than... Um.”  
  
“Light reflecting off of Venus.”  
  
“Light reflecting off of Venus?”  
  
“Never failed me in the past,” Crowley said matter-of-factly.  
  
“Huh,” said the angel. He cleared his throat, glancing round to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “It was a weather balloon. And now, when you wake up, you’ll all go off and have a lovely holiday with your families, and you’ll not complain about the roasts even if they’re burned, or if you don’t get the presents you hinted about wanting all year--”  
  
“Wrap it up.”  
  
“And there’ll be peace on earth and good will towards men.”  
  
Crowley snapped his fingers.  
  
For several moments, the crowd stood quite still. Then they began to break apart, moving forward and back, to their homes and to the shops. It was the sort of pastoral scene for which a certain class of painters might have killed, or at least offered to sell their firstborn[1].  
  
“Well, that was great, but I’ve really got to be on my way,” said Crowley. “I was only passing through, and...”  
  
“Wait,” said Aziraphale. He forced his hands to unclench. “Did you say you were having mince pies?”  
  
Crowley shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I may have.”

 

 

* * *

  
  
“These were in the closet when I got here,” Crowley said, dumping a heap of assorted clothes onto the guestroom bed. There were pressed linen shirts, stockings, breeches, and several velvet frocks. “I don’t know about the sizes, but the seams are all tagged by Brixby and Sons.”  
  
“Oh?” Aziraphale lifted up an oversized handkerchief between his thumb and forefinger, held it before his eyes for a moment, and then let it flutter back down to the top of the pile.  
  
“Brixby and Sons of Saville Row.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Crowley decided to give it one more try. “It’s a very prestigious tailor shop.”  
  
“No doubt,” said Aziraphale. He still had bits of twig in his hair, and Crowley resisted the urge to chide him about it; there was no sense in pushing things. Also: he’d already ordered a hot bath drawn for him.  
  
“Tell my porter when you’ve finished with this so he can put it on the fire,” he said, and stealthily reached out to poke at Aziraphale’s robe. “What is that, burlap?”  
  
“It’s _wool_ ,” Aziraphale said with exaggerated firmness.  
  
“Was, you mean.” Crowley brushed his hands together in distaste. “More mud now than anything else.”  
  
“I thought we’d agreed not to talk about--”  
  
“Sorry,” Crowley said insincerely.  
  
“And the bath is... where, exactly?”  
  
“Down the hall, second door on the right.”  
  
Aziraphale met his eye. “I still don’t understand why you insist on calling this a cottage,” he said. “It could house at least a dozen.”  
  
Crowley shrugged. “Some people take up more room than others,” he said with a smile that was just bland enough to indicate he wasn’t one of those people. Aziraphale, on the other hand... Well, it couldn’t be said that the guestroom was small, for one might host a round of polo in it, and it wasn’t that the angel had brought along a great deal of luggage, for he hadn’t brought any. But from the moment he’d arrived he had surveyed the perimeter with the sort of hands-on tenacity that showed nothing if not the deepest level of skepticism; he picked up every decorative china plate, every glass bauble and bit of country bric-à-brac, stared at it, and then set down to rest in not quite the same place it had rested before. It was perfectly true that the place had a certain unreal air about it, but Crowley couldn’t help but wonder whether it was strictly necessary for Aziraphale to stand before the bookshelf and pull back spines at just the right angle for unlocking a secret trap door.  
  
There was no secret trap door, nor were there hidden staircases or clandestine passageways. There wasn’t even a mysterious tunnel in the wine cellar. The dining pulley only went up to a parlor on the next floor, and the larder was in fact stocked with food.  
  
Crowley watched as Aziraphale slid a copy of _Aunt Olive’s Happy Homecoming_ back into place. “Find anything you like?” he asked.  
  
“Whatever else can be said about the previous owner,” said Aziraphale, “he had abysmal taste in novels.”  
  
“I saw an old copy of _Utopia_ in there,” Crowley said helpfully. “You know. For a laugh.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“And what about this?” Crowley tapped a random spine.  
  
“ _The Fantastical Voyage of Captain Smalling_?”  
  
“Could be good.”  
  
There was a lengthening pause, and then Aziraphale offered, “Well, I do appreciate your hospitality, my dear. It isn’t every year one gets to spend the holiday in this sort of idyllic setting.”  
  
“Yeah, the rustic furniture really gets to me too.”  
  
“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.”  
  
“Oh, the _friars_. I can imagine it now: wake up at five to scrub some floors, then sing, read, and transcribe some decrepit Latin primers, and then scrub some more floors. What a lovely time you must’ve had, angel.”  
  
“You’re thinking of monks,” said Aziraphale, “and I believe your people have something similar.”  
  
“Sure. They’re called civil servants.”  
  
Aziraphale’s lips twitched as he hid a smile. “Thank you, Crowley. Now, if you’ll allow me a moment...”  
  
“Ah.” Crowley took a step backwards, and then another. When he came to the doorway, he finished lamely, “I’ll go see about dinner.”  
  
“And I’ll not be an hour.”  
  
Fifty-eight minutes later, Aziraphale met him in the parlor.  
  
“Hope I’ve not kept you waiting long,” he said, tugging at the lace of his cuffs. He didn’t look half bad. His hair was still slightly damp, and Crowley was offhandedly pleased he’d enough grace to make use of the jar of scent that was prominently positioned atop the guestroom chest of drawers. He’d also gone with the burgundy frock; his cheeks looked ruddier for it.  
  
Crowley, on the other hand, had taken the easy way out by pouring himself a healthy helping of brandy. He made a production out of checking his pocket watch, and yawned gapingly. “Only forever,” he said. “I don’t know what you were expecting with all this. It’s nothing extravagant.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sure whatever you have in store will be quite civil.”  
  
And it was, rather.  
  
There was roast goose and rack of lamb, mince pies, corned beef pies, chicken and mushroom pies, and yes, spinach pies. There were a dozen types of cheese, chestnuts and walnuts, several loaves of warm bread, plum pudding and rum cake, and six bottles of a not at all bad red wine.  
  
Aziraphale stood very still for several moments, his eyes grazing over the table, and he only sat down until Crowley had done so first.  
  
“What, no partridge?”  
  
For a moment, Crowley was at a loss for words. Then he grumbled, “I didn’t think--”  
  
“Joking, joking. But you’re sure you’re not housing an army in here?” Aziraphale asked wonderingly.  
  
“I was hungry. This’ll last me a while.”  
  
“You hate leftovers.”  
  
“Only the wrong _kind_ of leftovers,” said Crowley. “Anyway, I thought we could serve ourselves tonight.”  
  
Aziraphale smiled broadly. “Really, Crowley,” he said, “I’m impressed by your considerateness. It’s _almost_ something I wouldn’t expect from you.”  
  
“No, don’t get the wrong idea. I was only thinking of myself. The help’s no good at times like this. They’re off in their own thoughts: sugarplums and snowflakes and all that rot.” Crowley thoughtfully chewed a mouthful of buttered rye, and then continued, “I’ve had one too many shirts stained by spilled wine to not have learned my lesson.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
A pause. “How’d the clothes work for you?”  
  
Aziraphale frowned. “Perfectly,” he said. “Funny sort of coincidence, don’t you think?”  
  
“Happens all the time.” Crowley sipped his brandy, feeling suddenly grateful for having remembered to remove the price tags. “That Earl of Whatsit was a rather hus-- Er, a man of good taste.”  
  
“You never even talked to him, did you?”  
  
“It was an impression I got. I’ve been around long enough to pick up a thing or to about human nature.”  
  
“I suppose...”  
  
“If he plays his cards right, he’ll be Prime Minister in no time.”  
  
“I thought you said he was a bad hand at cards.”  
  
Crowley smiled. “I did.”  
  
“Mm.” With utmost care, Aziraphale unshelled a roasted chestnut, pulling free every detectable bit of skin, and then unceremoniously popped it into his mouth. He munched gladly for a moment before saying, “So. What else have you been doing?”  
  
“I founded a gentlemen’s club.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
Crowley nodded.  
  
“More gambling?”  
  
“Yes and no.”  
  
“Go on,” said Aziraphale.  
  
“Well, it’s all very abstract. Gentlemen go there to spend time away from their friends and bet on the mere idea of things. They’re calling it the new philosophy. You’d like it.”

 

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale rubbed the tender flesh between his eyes.  
  
It was nearly mid-morning; Captain Smalling and his crew had traveled to the corners of the earth, at last forced to confront the most fearsome of sea monsters, and then... Nothing. It was almost as though the author had run out of ink. Aziraphale snapped the book closed with a half-murmured, “Ridiculous. How can it end like that?”  
  
He blew out the candle, arched his back, and crossed the room to return the book to its shelf. A quick glance over the neighboring spines confirmed that he would have to find the sequel elsewhere[2], which is not to say he would have chosen to spend his Christmas wrapped up in that sort of hackwork, but he couldn’t be sure how long Crowley planned to spend in bed.  
  
Crowley had, Aziraphale remembered, once attempted to explain the logistics of sleep to him. “It’s all a matter of being relaxed enough,” became, “I don’t know what you’re so afraid of,” which eventually led to Crowley transforming himself into a careful approximation of a brick while Aziraphale was left to sort out the technicality of running a business with a slumbering demon sprawled out in the foyer.  
  
And that, as they say, had been that.  
  
Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled.  
  
“I wonder...” he said. He peeked through the curtains, blinked, and then drew them apart.  
  
The landscape appeared utterly seeped of color: gray sky gave way to gray trees, and gray trees gave way to gray ground. There were patches of snow here and there, and icicles hung from the eves. His breath clouded the windowpane; very deliberately, he used his handkerchief to wipe it away.  
  
He shrugged on one of the jackets Crowley had lent him. It was not at all a bad piece of clothing, and it fit his shoulders just so, but he rather wished its blue velvet and brocade finish afforded more warmth. Wearing it with the matching fur-lined cloak seemed a bit much.  
  
Just the same, he fastened it at his neck with a luxurious bow, straightened his stockings, and set out down the hall in search of breakfast.  
  
The cottage was completely still, and even when Aziraphale held his ear against the keyhole on Crowley’s bedroom door, he heard not so much as a sniffle.  
  
“Typical,” the angel chirped. And then, a little later and a little louder, “Crowley, I know you’re not listening, but I’m going to find something to eat. If you want anything, tell me now.” He waited. “No? Well, in that case, I’ll see you after I take my morning constitutional. Perhaps you’ll have the sense to start a fire. It’s not going to get any warmer in here.”  
  
When his stomach rumbled again, he was well on his way to preparing himself an omelet replete with potatoes and greens, as well as some choice pieces of goose on the side.

 

 

* * *

  
  
As far as Christmas mornings went, Crowley had been through worse. For one thing, it was a bit warmer than he’d expected. He was able to open his mouth without accumulating ice, and the occasional toe wiggle kept his feet from becoming stiff. Also: it hadn’t been a thoroughly insurmountable task to drag his bones out of bed -- there was a universal constant that some moments were better realized behind the rabbit fur lining of his cloak rather than beneath the duvet.  
  
He had peeked out his window, and some small part of him didn’t mind what he saw; it wasn’t going to snow, which counted for a lot. He fixed himself a lopsided omelet, donned his black wool breeches and silk stockings, and laced up his ice skates. He didn’t pay Aziraphale a bit of mind. The angel was most likely pouring through some book or other, heedless of the hour and the date, and only to emerge when it was time to trim the springtime verge.  
  
And now Crowley was shooting between the embankments, shifting his feet left and right until the landscape became a dull blur.  
  
He’d once heard a shopkeeper compare the sport of skating to the flight of angels.  
  
He knew better than that.  
  
It was wrought more from rhythm than simple sentimentality. It was the knick of steel blades on the smooth, dry surface, and the stroke of air against his brow. Shopkeepers might say anything to make a sale, save for the fact that skates brought their wearers into close union with the earth.  
  
Crowley took a deep breath, held his arms to his sides, and leapt from one skate to the other. The shock of the blade pushing down upon the ice sent a jolt of energy up his leg, where it then circuited up his spine and settled in his chest. He felt elevated and warm.  
  
And there, lumbering through the forest, stepping widely over felled trunks and moss-backed boulders, was a figure.  
  
Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Hi,” he said with careful distinctness when the man was within hearing distance.  
  
“Good morning,” said Aziraphale. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Hope I’m not disturbing anything?”  
  
“Does it _look_ like you’re disturbing something?”  
  
“No. I mean, maybe. Yes.” A pause, and then: “I didn’t know you skated.”

 

 

* * *

  
  
“Steady, steady.”  
  
“You’re not even moving.”  
  
Aziraphale shook his head, and instantly regretted it. “Um,” he said, scrabbling a few inches out from the embankment. “There. I just moved.”  
  
“That was the wind,” Crowley replied.  
  
“Don’t snap at me.”  
  
“Well, if you weren’t so--”  
  
“I’m trying my best.” To illustrate his point, Aziraphale pushed forward with one skate, and then the other. He flexed his hands. “And there we are.”  
  
“Keep your eyes open.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Eyes. Open.”  
  
“Oh.” Aziraphale opened his eyes. For a moment, the world seemed to spin. Then he focused on a bit of stem that had been frozen into the mottled surface of the pond. Next to it were some leaves, and next to the leaves was a rather intimidating clump of dirt. He suddenly realized there was more riff-raff in the ice than ice, and that it would be nigh on impossible to skate between each root and ripple with any success. He felt his stomach lurch. “Actually, I think it helps to keep them--”  
  
“Now bend your knees.”  
  
Aziraphale bent his knees.  
  
“And for the love of Heav-- He-- _Hampstead_ , keep your eyes _open_.”  
  
Aziraphale kept his eyes open.  
  
“Good,” said Crowley. He was skating backwards, his hands on his hips. He seemed to be disinterestedly scrutinizing the air above Aziraphale’s left shoulder. Aziraphale was unimpressed.  
  
“I don’t know how this can possibly be so effortless for you,” he mumbled glumly.  
  
“It’s all in your mind, angel. You’re not going to fall.”  
  
Just then, Aziraphale fell.  
  
It was not an inelegant bit of mismanaged maneuvering, Aziraphale thought as his rump hit the hard, cold surface of the pond. His legs shot out straight in front of him, which saved him the trouble of any strained ligaments or bruised shins; the scattering of snow that billowed up in his wake brought to mind a thousand tiny grains of salt tossed over one’s shoulder.  
  
And it wasn’t unlucky, either: Crowley might have tumbled squarely on top of him, but instead he slipped to Aziraphale’s side.  
  
“Why did you do that?” he hissed.  
  
Aziraphale wasn’t aware of having done anything. “Do what?”  
  
“You pulled me down with you.”  
  
“I’m sure I did nothing of the sort.”  
  
Crowley rubbed his elbows, and then his chin. When a tiny droplet of blood appeared on his lip, he licked it away with a furious flick of his tongue. “That,” he said, “wasn’t my fault.”  
  
“I didn’t say it was.”  
  
“But it can’t be _neither_ of our faults.”  
  
“Cause and effect, my dear,” said Aziraphale. And then, reaching out to pull a bit of twig free from Crowley’s hair, “You’ve a bit of... There. It’s all butterfly wings one moment, and then tycoons the next. If you weren’t so busy trying to be showy, you might’ve had the foresight to circumvent this little incident.”  
  
Crowley glared at the twig for several moments, and then shifted his eyes to Aziraphale. “Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to go _inside_?”  
  
“I don’t see why I would.”  
  
“But you hate this. At this point you probably wish you’d stayed with your friars.”  
  
Crowley drew out the last word, and suddenly Aziraphale was confronted with the mental image of a large plate of fish and chips. He hazarded a grin.  
  
“What?” Crowley demanded.  
  
“We should be grateful your ego was the only person here who was hurt.”  
  
“Oh, _very_ funny. You’re sure you didn’t hit your head?”  
  
“No,” said Aziraphale. He dashed the back of his hand across his brow, and looked up through the skeletal canopy which surrounded them; here and there patches of sunlight fell on the forest floor. “You know, I’m sure I’d be rather good at this if the ice weren’t quite so slippery.”  
  
“Skating only works if the ice is slippery,” said Crowley. “And I happen to like it that way.”  
  
“You didn’t like it when the front stoop of my shop froze last year.”  
  
“That was different. I was _walking_ there.”  
  
Aziraphale decided to let it go. With a deep breath, he began to push himself up, left foot, right foot, and then immediately slid back down. “Oh! Why don’t you--”  
  
“I’ll go first.”  
  
Crowley shook himself vigorously from shoulders to toes, but there were still patches of snow scattered along the seams of his clothes. His hair was lightly tousled; his cravat was slightly wrinkled. He seemed to pause for a moment. Then he smiled.  
  
“So,” he said. “What’d you get me?”  
  
“I’m not going to spoil the surprise.”  
  
“How about a hint? It’s a rather round sort of thing, isn’t it?”  
  
Aziraphale let out a short laugh. “Don’t press your luck.”  
  
“I don’t believe in luck,” Crowley said dryly. “And don’t worry. I didn’t get you anything, either.”  
  
Aziraphale shook his head. Then he held out his hand.  
  
When Crowley helped him to his feet, his touch was warm.  
  
  
\-------------------------  
[1] It meets every Monday and Wednesday evening between 6:00 and 9:00, at Norton Polytechnic room A-17. Interested parties are to contact Ms. Raven Nightshade no later than January 20, or before the start of the new term. Possible areas of interest include still life, portraiture, landscape, and abstract. Prior painting experience preferred, but not mandatory. BYOB (Bring Your Own Brushes)

[2] Viscount Ceasefire had always intended to write a sequel to _The Fantastical Voyage of Captain Smalling_. He’d even scrawled out its title, _Captain Smalling Founds a Penal Colony on the Moone_ , in large, presumptuous letters on top of a stack of pristine paper. But it just wasn’t to be. After all, who was _he_ to argue with the ghost of Sir Walter Raleigh?  
  
The ghost came to him on a frigid February night. “Are you Sir Walter Raleigh?” said he. “Yes,” replied the ghost. “ _The_ Sir Walter Raleigh?” “Yes.” “The really _real_ Sir Walter Raleigh?” “Yes.” And here the ghost began to dissipate back into the ether from whence it came, though that did not stop Ceasefire from calling after him, “Wait! What shall I do with my life? Not continue my absent scribbling, surely!” But there was no answer. The shock of it eventually drove the good Viscount into an Alpine monastery, where he scrubbed floors, sang, read, transcribed Latin primers, and then scrubbed some more floors for the rest of his days. He did, however, find the time to write one last book. “I couldn’t have done it without him,” he said, on the road between Dunkirk and Damascus. Needless to say, _My Buddy Sir Walter Raleigh and Me, a True Account of One Man’s Journey from Darkness to Darker Darkness to Light_ , was an international success.


End file.
